Out of the Comfort Zone
by JulieGriffin
Summary: A collection of short fics that allow me to push myself out of my comfort zone in order to improve my writing. This is a way for me to get feedback, but it's also here for you to enjoy. Don't expect regular updates; I'll update whenever I have a story done. Mainly Clexa, but there might be some Lexark and Princess Mechanic once in a while.


**I'm sorry, but you all are going to hate me for this one. I had to get it out. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It brought me some feels because it does discuss someone's** **death** **, so beware! Anyways, don't hate me, pls have mercy.**

"Colors"

In which Clarke makes her final journal entry about the ground.

(Takes place in S4)

* * *

 _I feel the sun on my face. I see trees all around me, scent of wildflowers on a breeze. It's so beautiful. In this moment, I'm not stranded in space. It's been 97 years since a nuclear apocalypse killed everyone on Earth, leaving the planet simmering in radiation. Fortunately, there were survivors at the time of the bombs. There is now only The Ark, one station forged from the many. We're told the Earth needs another 100 years to become survivable again and man can go home, back to the ground. The ground, that's the dream. This is reality._

* * *

It's been too long since I've spoken with you. The life down here is all that I've told you to imagine—the fresh winds that carry the scent of the wildflowers in the spring, the vibrant colors of all the thriving life, and the piercing greens that flourish in every corner of the mountains and valleys. I had never been fond of the color green, but now I find that it's my favorite color. From the vibrant mosses under my bare feet in the mornings, to the darker shades of pine leaves that protect the ground from the harsh sunlight of every passing day, it's something you can't ignore.

Everything here is green—beautiful and alive with color. You can smell it during the evening patrols, stemming from the blooming plants. You can taste it in the fresh water from the well. And you can hear it in the snorts of the young horses, their senses spiked with energy, ready to bolt across the pasture.

You could also see it in her eyes.

Imagine something so fierce turned soft within seconds. Her dark pupils expanding as her eye lids start to close. You see those small streams of blue breaking from the border of her irises into the stunning landscape of a prairie that her eyes are; and those few highlights of yellow-green decorating the subtle meadow of her eyes—it reminds me of the small spring buds that pop from their stems when winter dies.

Picture her eating a fresh, green vegetable, picked from the capitol's gardens just that morning. She smiles across the table from you and ends up not being able to take a good bite. She cups her mouth, hiding her mistake. Hear the crisp crunch of the vegetable as it cracks in her jaws—it's fresh and green, something new.

Down here on Earth, green seems to carry life. Or maybe everything that is alive carries green.

She had that green—those brilliant eyes that I could never forget. But one day they were gone, never to be seen again. As much as I tried to take one last glance at her blooming eyes, I couldn't. Her lids were shut, forever covering the life that she'd once had.

I'd lost her, only to see her again in the flame one last time. I'd tried to soak in every inch of her: the curve of her hips, her slim face and prominent cheeks, her pearl white teeth, and those knobby yet strong legs. We weren't together for long, and I was cut short of my observations. She'd left me for the last time.

As much as I tried to put her stunning image on paper, I couldn't ever perfect the life her eyes once possessed. They are always either too dim or too lifeless. She never even appears right in the pages of my sketch book. I regret not being able to memorize every single detail of her when we had time. Not even those last moments I spent drinking in her form—while we were in the City of Light—could allow me to draw her correctly.

I remember I had captured her once in charcoal when she was still here, sleeping on the couch with her book still open. It's ironic how she was drawn in black and her eyes closed, just as she was when I'd last seen her alive. She looked so at peace when she slept, and maybe, she currently is at peace, now that she doesn't have to deal with the constant strain to survive and protect her people.

I never mentioned to you that we're still struggling to survive on the ground. I didn't want to bring up the negatives because it seems that everything is falling apart. My dream of living on the ground—on Earth, our home—seems to have all been a dream. The planet is just about as habitable as The Ark was. People constantly die, we have limited supplies, and we're still running out of time. We also still have to fight, maybe now more than ever.

At the moment, I need to focus more on colors because tomorrow I might not be able to ever see them again. I might not wake up from my sleep, only to forget the dancing yellows, oranges, and reds from the campfires lit at night. Or to forget the beauty of all the vivid pinks and purples of the orchids that hide away deep within the forest's heart. But most of all, I can't allow myself to fail recalling the radiant greens that paint this planet with what life that's left.

It's slowly chipping away, though. The hidden meadow across from the trickling stream that travels south is half burned to charcoal and ash. The ground colors the bottom of your boots with the powdery, grey ash and sharp black remains of burnt trees. I remember watching the dark streaks of smoke that dispersed into the sky the day the flames started. The smoke left the whole valley stuffy and murky. Luckily, it rained the next week, clearing away most of the smog. Although, all I could remember of those couple weeks was the gloomy state of the world, constantly bleak and fading away into death.

I've observed that I don't paint in dark colors anymore. They're always pale—usually I color my pages in pastels. Maybe that's why I'm never able to express her quite that accurately.

Her skin tone always works out well, because it matches perfectly with my flesh tone dye. Her hair is something I have to force myself to make dark. I remember she always had it braided to the back, the front pulled over the top of her head, keeping her curly locks from shading her eyes.

Her eyes.

I clearly recollect that one day we met in her room. I was about to leave back to my people in Arkadia to keep a war from happening. I recall the astonishing light seeping through the designs of her wooden panel as the sun started to set. Her eyes had never looked so golden and filled with heart-break. The gold reflected her sorrows—the feelings that were never able to be released, that remained bolted shut and secured to only herself.

Many may think of a golden tinted color as alive and joyous or something glorious and powerful. Though I do agree, this moment showed other emotions.

Her eyes spoke everything: the hurt of my choice to leave, the understanding of my love for my people, the showing of feelings that had been locked away since our first kiss. This gold was powerful as well; it showed her passion and love, something no one else would never see. At that moment, her glossy eyes reflected her true feelings, their green meshed with the brilliant gold, glimmering with the building tears.

That day is something I never want to think about, but I still do because I know I loved her. I know I miss her. I know I miss her firm stance against her enemies gone gentle in my presence. I know I miss our fleeting gazes across a room and those slight smiles we exchanged that no one had ever noticed. I long to touch her soft hair again and to stroke her lovingly in bed. I crave her lips on mine again, with her tender touch. I miss her pale green eyes staring into my own, asking if I loved her the way she loved me.

It seemed when her green left, so did the world's. It's dying. We're all dying. And if we aren't dead tomorrow, we soon will be. There's too much radiation. Not even waiting another 100 years in space would have allowed us to live in it.

Every day my body grows more and more tired. I feel the heave in my chest that I didn't have before. I've drastically dropped in weight, and my joints are now protruding through my skin. In the morning, I have to force myself to wake up, to stand up, even if I feel like I'm going to fall over. I try focussing in council meetings but constantly am unable to contribute much because my body is wearing away.

Here I am, writing down what could be my last few sentences. It's humorous as I read back to the beginning of this entry. As it starts with me optimistically explaining the generous qualities of Earth, I'm now leaving it off with the more genuine parts of life on the ground.

I guess I can sign off by remembering her, the one pleasurable thing that the Earth gave me. Through our faults, breaks, regrets, and reconciliations, we still found love in each other, even if it wasn't for long. Every second counted, and I finally got to see the real, pure green of this world.

May we meet again,

Clarke Griffin


End file.
